


River Runs Deep

by Kitsunechan



Category: Homestuck
Genre: AU: Rapperstuck, Battling With Addiction, Dealing With Withdrawl, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, In Which Tavros Discovered Confidence, Inspired By Knowmads, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, This May Have A Moral
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-31
Updated: 2016-01-31
Packaged: 2018-05-17 10:44:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5866369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kitsunechan/pseuds/Kitsunechan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Hey." He ruffles his floppy mohawk. He's gonna miss that kid. "Go be famous, little bro. I'll be fine as shit waiting for you back home."</p>
            </blockquote>





	River Runs Deep

 You were a young man, but you started off a little boy like most mothfuckers. Pretty much you're whole damn life you've never really been employed, except for that job at McDonald's back in senior year. Shit hard to find jobs nowadays. You had just up and turned nineteen when you got the chance to go to motherfucking college and all that shit, try out your life and see if you could get all wise with ideas and knowledge. They told you to think about your life, or whatever the hell you call it, but look at where you are now. Just a clocked damn broke alcoholic. You used to keep a picture of your best buddy, Tav, up in your wallet, but some shit happened and you don't see him much no more. They did tell you to think about your life, but you don't even think life is what you call it now.

     You started coming home all late and shit with your knuckles all bloody and shirt all motherfucking fucked up. City don't need sleep, so why should you? (River runs real deep, says Karbrother to you, all sad. You only nineteen.) You wrote all sorsta shit up in your head, so you ain't really getting your speak on to Karbrother or Tavbro or much anyone else, really. The pills are your motherfucking business, a secret between you and the gods alone. Even when your memory starts missing chunks and the pills are your life, your death, you ain't telling nobody. 

     You feel your ribs through your jacket after about four weeks or so, coming home later, voices getting louder. The world gets sorta fuzzy like those kitties in the box, so motherfucking cute. Up until they died, then they scary looking. You almost tell Karkat about the streets, and he looks all mad at you when you hold your tongue, knows you ain't letting something on. But then the world gets all fuzzy again, and you're happy, world's happy, and shit's okay.

     Until it ain't. The world is all cruel again and pointed around the edges, you're coming down off your high and you can't even take a motherfucking hit to take the edge off. Your body ain't working right and your head is pounding, you can't let Karbro see you like this, you gotta get more drugs or you ain't gonna live with yourself. You walk (or drag) your ass down to the alley you know the spiderbitch is in, wait for her to finish dealing some grass to a scrawny hipster fucker and shiver and wait some more.

     You beg her. You beg her for some more miracles, your home is out the window and you ain't got none of your shit you ain't _got_ nothing but cold air in your lungs and the rank ass clothes on your back. You just need a hit, just one to make the world more cuddly than it is now and make it all okay again. Or two hits. Or three. Or ten. ANY-FUCKING-THING. You sit there on your knees, begging _please gimme something_  while she smirks like the bitch she is. You wanna rip her motherfucking throat out. You wanna cry. You wanna be young and stupid again, asking your old man to make it better, but guess what your old man up and died and you got yourself addicted to something you don't even know the fucking name of like the stupid idiot you are.

     She stares at you real hard, at your skinny limbs and your skinny face and your tired eyes. Vriska be getting her know on of your tolerance to the shit you usually get, it just _ain't enough_ you want something to completely motherfucking  _floor_ you and make it all okay again. She makes her mind up about something or another, and you feel like the motherfucking condemned waiting at the chopping block for some shit they ain't up and meaning to do. She sighs through her nose and pulls some shit out from that bag of miracles she always got, holding it just out of reach from your spot on the cold as motherfucking stone ground.

     She says she can get you high on the shit nobody fucks with. Even the fiends and the thieves know better than to touch the shit, and you're scared for a second, you don't wanna fucking die from this motherfucker. You was only nineteen and you were on your knees, begging please gimme something. She stared at you again, said she dunno if she can up an trust you, who the motherfuck does she thing she's talking at? You ain't a pig or some shit, you ain't telling nobody if you get your hands on something.

     But she got a lot, says she might as well push it up into the public. Tells you to watch out for the pigs, what the fuck they gonna do anyway? Tells you not to share, keep it go yourself no matter who asks you. You listen, you listen real good because your dealer be giving you some special shit here and you don't wanna share any-motherfucking-way. You know what you're motherfucking doing.

     She hands you a pistol. Says it's up and for your protection, handing you a plastic bag that up an looked like little bits of crystal, all shiny an sharp and beautiful. You knew what this shit was, this was what Kurloz told you to motherfucking watch out for, this shit is dangerous he said, but everything you've done is dangerous and you're still alive (barely). She tells you it's not as painful as it looks, making sure shards of glass ain't an motherfucking issue. Says not to snitch or that pistol is going through your skull and your crystals are going down the drain. Kurloz and Karkat and Tavros, they probably wouldn't miss you, but you'd sure as shit miss them and the drugs and you made up your mind, you ain't telling nobody nothin'.

     So you've lost your house, your school, your motherfucking family, even your sense of motherfucking direction. Kicked from your pad by your landlord's shitty self, didn't like you smoking in the building or the copious amounts of bloody laundry lying around. All you ever really had was your motherfucking rhymes up in your head and a dream up in your heart, you're on the streets all cold and shit with your friends nowhere to be found. You got meth in your lungs as you watch the sun fade out, was it always so motherfucking dark out here? Karkat's voice rings around you high and sharp and sweet, like silver bells. He told you to watch your life, that the river runs real deep, but you never listened.

     You do remember though. You remember up and meeting that kitty sister, when you were over at the food bank. You remember that hipster dude, the motherfucker who gave you your first hit of weed. You remember Karbrother's face, all sad and shit, burned to the backs of your eyelids. Maybe that's why you never opened them fuckers again. 

     You never lived past twenty one of your shitty life, left in an alley to suffocate as that polluted river known as life sorta motherfucking flows on.

 

\----''----

 

     You're a young man, but you started out just a kid, like everybody else. It's kind of hard finding a job even in this day and age, apparently discrimination is still a thing people do. Then you turned nineteen. You filed the first college application you found, and surprisingly, they let you in. You found yourself spreading whatever happiness you could over the radio, trying out your luck, hoping for the best, hoping to pass along knowledge while you were at it. 

     You remembered your life, but you really wished to recall it. Details get fuzzy over the years, you wanted a way to make them stand out. Money became scarce to come by, so you stopped. You stopped the cigarettes, the whiskey on the weekends and in that flask you keep in your shirt pocket. You needed to continue spreading happiness, you had to, however you needed time to do it and Aradia said they were bad for you anyway. 

     You began doing the odd job here or there, only spending money on the bare necessities. You stopped drinking completely, ignoring the pangs of withdrawal whenever you passed by the ABC store. You would quit, you swore on your life that you would, and there is no chance in hell that you are going back on it. You had to focus on music, clear out your mind, keep it focused, focused. You would walk home later, sometimes not even coming back home until the sun began rising, but hey. Gamzee did it all the time, saying how he was one with the city, and the city never sleeps.

     You has already come in contact with plagiarism once or twice. So to solve this problem, you wrote down the lyrics in your head, never telling anyone but your producer how they went. You kept blocking out the world without even realizing it, rapping was no longer just your hobby or your passion but your life, if you failed this you would fail everybody. Which is not an option. 

     You came up with some pretty "sick beats" as your producer calls them. You left on tours, sighed autographs, and you were finally able to get a small flow of money in your bank account. Strider was always thumping you on the back, congratulating you on your accomplishments and pretty much being there for you. Rufioh kept calling you, saying how proud he was, saying how proud dad would be If he was still alive, and you save those voicemails on your phone and listen to them every night for encouragement. You were actually doing well for once.

     To take a break for a bit, you decided to volunteer at the local food bank for the week. It made you feel helpful, especially once you met Nepeta, she helped screw your head on straight. Someone around your age came over once, his hair and clothes were an absolute mess but he always had a friendly smile on his face. He said he was grateful for all you were helping out, insisting you keep going because it makes his smile. (River runs deep, he said with a sad smile on his face. Friends are what keep us runnin')

     You could've been selfish. You could've lost it at the beginning of your career, but you got rid of everything that endangered it. The weird friendly guy simply proved how much it was worth it, losing the whiskey and the cigarettes and the weed. But problems still happened, when you ran out of lyrics and were quite simply  _heartbroken_  when you realized there was no getting out of this. You called up Strider, you trusted him, he would help, you can't end it like this, he had to help.

     Strider. He was an asshole, he didn't pick up the phone, you had to track him down yourself. You drove to his studio in record time. And Strider. Dave fucking Strider tried to give you someone else's lyrics. He tried to get you to plagiarize, and you were desperate, literally on your knees begging to  _please give me something, you piece of shit._  He stared at you, at the tears traveling down your face, at your ratty shoes and your loose clothes and the bags under your eyes. He realized that your rapping career was your life, you still don't understand how it took him this long.

     He took a pack of paper from his desk, organizing it neatly and dropping it on the floor beside you. He said a bit smugly on how you have to go solo, nobody else had a mind like you apparently, and tells you to make it work. He ruffled your floppy Mohawk and strode out the door. You absently wiped the tears from your face and stood up, walking out of the small office with a grin threatening to split your face in half. You were so going to fuck them all over this time.

     You posted all of your new releases on your blog, freestyles and covers and someone else's songs and someone else's tunes. (Except for the freestyles.) The best decision you ever made was quitting alcohol and sniffing out your cigs. You lived with no fear, only determination, you listened to the Gods and made it through the hard things. All you ever had were your rhymes and a dream, now your signing autographs at the age of nineteen. Constantly your shows were sold out, money was overflowing from your wallet so money was no longer a stress. (You may or may not have donated one hundred dollars every Sunday to the animal shelter.) Lots of people said you were the best, actually. People everywhere respected you, you gained friends you never thought you would, and you were just so thankful you didn't have to worry about money anymore. 

     You still think about your life, now very able to remember the small, important details. You even remember how you were this close to being an alcoholic, when you fought the ugly beast known as addiction and was this close to losing, when you were this close to leaving college. You held yourself together so that you could spread the happiness that was granted to you. You're still here at fucking twenty one years on God's green earth, and that itself is lucky.

     But today? Today you're flying back down to Seattle, to where it all started. Rufioh and Karkat and Gamzee, holy fuck how long has it been since you've even seen Gamzee? You want to go home and see everyone, fame is a war that you've triumphed over, maybe you'll just lie down in your bed at Rufioh's because you know for a fact he hasn't touched your room in the two years you've been gone. He's too sentimental for that, your brother. 

     Walking past that food bank not too far from the airport, you see the sorry figure of a man, head bowed and legs stretched in front of him. You panic, running over to him, but his eyes won't open and a very small trickle of blood drips from the corner of his mouth. You want to leave, to drown yourself once again in the world of music, but there is blood on your shoes and his face reminds you of Gamzee.

     Oh God.

     You sob, falling forward and catching yourself on the brick he's leaning on, only to get more blood on your hands. His eyes open a fraction of an inch and you stare into them, they glow purple am sad and alone but relieved like he's happy your the one who found him. He grips your shoulder in a shaky grip, whispering one thing,  _one last fucking thing and it's a quote from one of your songs_  You sob harder.

     "Story of their lives, both were each other. Both of them considered more than just a brother. Rivers run deep so thick you can drown in, so many people die but nobody never found him. You can keep on breathing by just plain believing."

"Remember, just go and say every thing will  turn out okay."

**Author's Note:**

> Holy shit I wrote this forever ago. Eh. Hope you liked it regardless :3


End file.
